WHAT RUMOURS DON’T SAY
Copyright © 2012 by Faith C. Martin
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Except for the gentle thud of Hessians on the solid oak floor and the faint, flickering glow of the night lamps, the manor was dark and silent, almost as forbidding as its master as he stepped through the shadows in the corridors.
Having already shed his coat and gloves, Reeve went to the study to pour himself a glass of brandy, immediately feeling some of the exhaustion from his trip leave him as the warm, bronze liquid flowed down his throat. He had just returned to the country from London where he had spent the past few days attempting to secure some business arrangements, an endeavor in which he had unfortunately failed. Word had spread, after all, as it often did in the ton like wildfire, that he had been disowned, no longer to inherit the title of the seventh Earl of Ravenhall, nor the massive fortune that came with it, and unable to dispute it outright, his former clients and other people he thought he could rely on turned him away one by one.
Damnation.
He sneered at the memory of his failure, a situation he was not accustomed to, and then collected himself, resolving to find some other way to get past his current predicament and prove everyone wrong.
He placed the now empty glass on the mantel and went to the staircase, ascending slowly. Once in the upstairs hallway, he paused outside the door to his wife’s bedchamber. Just as he had expected, there was no light escaping from under the door, nor any sound from within indicating the wakefulness of its occupant. For a moment, he decided to just proceed to his own bedchamber and retire but the grim outcome of his journey made him want to see Anne, to be at least comforted by the sight of her sleeping form and run his fingers through her auburn curls, and so he turned the knob.
Immediately upon entering, an unsettling odor assaulted his nostrils accompanied by a sense of foreboding, spurring him on towards the bed. He released the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding when he saw the familiar silhouette on it but the relief was temporary, his apprehension gushing back in even greater intensity the moment he sat at the edge of the bed and touched his wife’s arm.
Cold.
At that same instant, moonlight flowed in through the window pane, its soft silver glimmer revealing the large stain on the front of his wife’s nightgown that had seeped through the blanket.
Red.
“Anne!”
He shook her once, twice, thrice, and when it was clear she would never respond, he pulled her onto his lap and held her close to his chest, burying his face in her auburn wisps, the only part of her still as soft as he remembered.
His Anne.
He had loved her from the moment he had seen her gentle smile and now fate had chosen to take her away from him. Inwardly, he harshly reprimanded himself for not having come home earlier, convinced the fatal illness, whatever it was, was all his fault.
And then his eye caught the empty bottle on the bedside table, its cap still off, the glass still holding traces of the greenish liquid it had contained.
No!
One
Nine years later…
Yes!
Axelle silently exulted as the lock to the study gave way, the knob turning with an audible click.
Her cousin, Katherine, had always chided her for reading all the time, telling her she couldn’t possibly learn anything useful from books, but tonight, as in several other occasions, she had proved her wrong.
Granted, a manual about picking locks was not exactly the usual book a person, let alone a young woman, read, nor could it be deemed suitable reading material unless one was a locksmith, but then again, her father’s collection of books, like himself, had been anything but usual, covering a wide range of subjects from the habits of dogs to theories about the workings of the universe.
It was one such unconventional book that she had come to retrieve from the study of Lord Elmsmoor – an old book about love and family life in ancient India written in Sanskrit. Although she had never read it, she vividly remembered it among one of her father’s piles of books at one time, and a few years earlier, when he had lost a piece of his luggage while traveling to the continent – an incident which was unfortunately common to a man who could be absent-minded as he – he mentioned, with great remorse, that it had been lost along with half a dozen others.
Axelle had been trying to track down those books ever since, intent on bringing her father joy and convinced that no one would want to hold on to them. She had been right. After regularly checking on old bookshops in the city and neighboring ones, she had managed to find all except two – one of which was now in Lord Elmsmoor’s keeping.
A week earlier, the owner of one of the bookshops she frequented told her the book had landed in his possession but that merely minutes after, someone had walked in and purchased the book as a present to Lord Elmsmoor. Axelle had been furious, having already informed the owner that the book was her father’s and that she had every intention of getting it back at any price, but no amount of fury could undo the deed.
That same day, she had called upon Lord Elmsmoor at his mansion, but the butler constantly turned her away, saying that she could not call on him without prior notice or appointment. When, tired of her insistence and for fear of a scandal, the Earl had agreed to see her, he had adamantly refused to part with the book at any cost and she had left downhearted, at a loss at how to retrieve her father’s book yet refusing to give up. She had vowed to herself to get all the books back, and she would not turn back now.
Which was why she was now about to break into Lord Elmsmoor’s study, at the brink of stealing the book, though she was convinced it was not stealing but merely getting what was rightfully hers.
With that thought firmly planted in mind, Axelle gently pushed the door open, grateful for the music of the violins drifting from the ballroom downstairs which masked its creaking hinges. After looking around one last time, she stepped in and closed the door behind her, locking it, then quickly ventured into the adjoining library to commence her search.
The books were mostly either about horses or business journals, which made Axelle wonder what the Earl would want in a book like her father’s, and she was about to give up and head, instead, to his bedchamber, when she spotted a small, oak table in the corner with a drawer. Removing another pin from her brown locks, she twisted it as she knelt in front of the table and was about to start picking the lock when she heard a deep voice from behind her.
“What are you doing here?”
Immediately, Axelle was on her feet and for a moment, she could not breathe as she averted the gaze of the man who had spoken, looking down instead at the crimson carpet, instantly trying to conjure the excuses she had prepared in the event that she was caught. “I…I…Forgive me, my lord, I was…”
She looked up to meet his gaze then, her panic abating, and as she did so, it dawned on her that the man standing in front of her was not the Earl of Elmsmoor, though he was staring at her with unveiled curiosity and disapproval.
“I don’t believe I have made your acquaintance, my lord,” she said,
collecting her wits about her as she squared her shoulders.
“No, you have not,” he merely replied, his icy gaze unmoving.
“Then, would you mind telling me your name?”
“I would. What is yours and what is your business with Lord Elmsmoor?”
He was certainly a difficult man, Axelle thought, but if he thought her easily intimidated, he was wrong.
“My business is my own, sir.”
“Believe me, I wish no part in it, considering the way you are conducting it.” His gaze went to the pin she had dropped on the floor. “I am merely curious.”
“As I am about your business, sir. After all, when I came in, the door was locked and I clearly remember locking it behind me, which meant you were already here or you’ve just picked the lock.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Good heavens, no, my lord. I would not dream of it. I am merely saying that we…”
Her words drew to a halt at the sound of impending footsteps, the panic she felt moments earlier resurging. From the look on the face of the man in front of her – she guessed he was a noble in his early thirties – he, too, was alarmed, although only in the least, his slightly furrowed brows the sole indication of it as he surveyed the room. For a moment, his eyes rested on the large, mahogany desk, behind which, Axelle guessed, he must have concealed himself earlier.
Large as it was, it was not enough to conceal two people, Axelle thought, and the man with her seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he was now looking at the window. In the next moment, he opened it, craning his neck to calculate its distance from the ground below.
From the frown he wore, Axelle guessed it was a considerable distance but the footsteps closing in gave neither of them a choice. When he jumped on the sill and offered his hand to her, she took it without hesitation.
In the next instant, Axelle was hurling herself from the ledge at the same time that he jumped down, and before she knew it, she was on the ground on her knees, her chest heaving.
He did not give her time to catch her breath, though, instead, pulling her to her feet and down a narrow path towards the gardens just as she heard voices above her. She allowed him to lead her, running as fast as her dainty gem-encrusted slippers could take her, one of her small, gloved hands grasped tightly within the long, elegant fingers of his much larger one, the other gathering as much of her skirts as she possibly could, which was not much considering the number of layers it was comprised of.
It seemed an eternity before they finally reached the safety of the gardens, with its weather-tarnished marble sculptures, curving stone paths and tall, freshly clipped hedges. Once there, Axelle breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have escaped the accusation of thievery and the sentence of imprisonment that came with it.
As for him, he merely stood there, and for the first time that night, Axelle noticed how handsome he looked with his shoulder-length black locks holding the gleam of the silver moonlight, his strong jaw and his broad shoulders still heaving from the exertion of their recent escapade. When he looked at her, his mystic grey eyes seemed to entrance her, but she forced herself to look away quickly.
He released her hand then, which she clasped to her chest as if to still the thrashing of her heart, though she still felt his gaze on her.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She nodded quickly, though she frowned when she took in the state of her dress, parts of its hem soiled and in tatters.
“Now, would you mind telling me what you were doing in Lord Elmsmoor’s study?” his voice shattered her thoughts.
She hesitated at first, but decided that since he had practically saved her, she owed him the truth. “Will you promise not to tell anyone, my lord?”
He seemed displeased with her lack of trust. “Upon my word.”
She nodded, satisfied. “I was looking for a book, my lord.”
“A book?”
“Not just any book. A rare book that belonged to my father. I had heard it was in Lord Elmsmoor’s possession. I meant to buy it back but he would not part with it.”
“So you decided you’d steal it?”
“Yes. I didn’t think I would run into much difficulty.”
“No, you didn’t,” he agreed.
He was scowling at her again, Axelle thought, when she finally met his gaze and for some reason, it made her feel like a wayward child. “Rest assured, my lord, I shall forever be in your debt, though I fear I shan’t be able to repay it if I do not know your name.”
“Ravenhall,” he muttered.
So he was the Earl of Ravenhall, Axelle thought. She had heard the name before and knew that it denoted wealth and power. She had heard of him, too, heard that he had been a widow for many years now and did not have an heir but did not seem to be actively seeking a wife. There were rumours, as well, that his first wife had not been of noble birth, but a woman of the streets, and because of it, he had been disowned, though he was reinstated at his father’s deathbed. There was even less decent talk regarding the death of his first wife, with some saying she had not died of an illness but had taken her own life because the Earl had whisked her to the countryside and locked her up, while others said the Earl had murdered her when he discovered that she was bearing another man’s child, presumably that of one of her previous lovers.
“It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.” She inclined her head lightly. “My name is Axelle Barton.”
“Barton?”
“Lord Thomas Barton, the present Viscount of Cleaves, is my cousin,” Axelle explained.
“I see.”
“And now my lord, I shall bid you good night. I fear my absence will not escape notice for long and my aunt will most likely suffer an attack of the vapors if she finds out I am missing.”
With that, she left in the direction of the ballroom, hastening for the second time that night, stopping only when she was a short distance outside to straighten the pleats of her skirts and run a palm through her hair, securing as many pins as she could and patting down the chestnut tendrils that had escaped their confinement so as not to arouse suspicion about her recent activity.
It had been a most fantastic turn of events, Axelle mused, to think that she had broken into someone else’s study just moments earlier and then had ended up being rescued by the mysterious Earl of Ravenhall.
At the recollection, she found herself raising the hand he had held to her cheek, remembering how strong but not forceful his grip had been, but allowed it to drop to her side mere seconds later, berating herself for having briefly acted like an infatuated schoolgirl, which she most definitely was not. She was a woman of twenty-two, more advanced in age than most of the unattached ladies in society – a fact which Lady Barton disapproved of at each turn – and therefore no longer an innocent, or so she believed, with greater knowledge about the ways of the world and a tighter rein over her emotions.
Still, she could not help but smile when she imagined how green with envy Katherine would surely be if she found out Axelle had been alone with a wealthy, handsome noble – not that Axelle would ever tell, of course.
It would be her secret for as long as she lived.
“How long were you planning on keeping this a secret from me?” Rosalind asked as she stormed into the library, still in her riding habit.
Behind her, her aunt and chaperone, a plump woman in her early fifties, wobbled, gasping for breath. “Forgive me, my lord, she took off.”
“It is quite alright, Aunt Lucille. You may leave us,” Reeve said, setting down his morning paper. He eyed his sister. “Though in the future, I would appreciate it if you did not give your chaperone a heart attack.”
“I beg your pardon, brother, but I wanted to confirm the rumours for myself.” Rosalind took the seat across him.
“It displeases me, Rosalind, that you pay attention to such idle talk, but by all means, let us hear what I have been keeping from you, though I recall no such promise of making you pri
vy to all my affairs.”
“You were seen with Miss Barton last night at Lord Elmsmoor’s ball,” Rosalind blurted out, causing Reeve to pause in the act of picking up his teacup. “In the gardens, to be precise. Alone. They said you were quite intimate, too, and…”
“That is enough, I think,” Reeve cut her off.
“Do you deny it?” Rosalind asked.
Reeve simply frowned.
“Well?”
“Go attend to your lessons, Rosalind,” he ordered. “I need to think.”
“But…”
“Rosalind,” he spoke more sternly, narrowing his gaze.
Rosalind sighed, knowing she would hear no more from her brother regarding the matter. “Alright, but you will tell me once…”
She stopped when she saw the impatience in his eyes, and understanding, she left without another word.
Once alone, Reeve stood up, no longer in the mood for tea. Pacing the room had never been one of his inclinations. Rather, he preferred to look out the window and allow the scenery to help him clear his head, which was what he did now.
You were seen with Miss Barton last night.
He had no idea who had seen them, never having sensed the presence of another while they were in the gardens – a fact he found most unsettling, particularly since he prided himself on having acute senses from years of hunting, a sport in which he excelled. Then again, he had been distracted last night, distracted by a certain green-eyed vixen with dark brown wavy hair and a small, mouth that was perfectly upturned at the corners. Granted, she was not what one called a beauty but there was something about her that attracted, no, demanded one’s attention and held it – his, at least.
They said you were quite intimate.
Now, he knew where that came from. After all, whoever had seen them had probably noticed Axelle’s disheveled appearance and her flushed cheeks, both caused, no doubt, by their flight from Lord Elmsmoor’s study.
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